


Center of Gravity

by themissing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Complete, Fallen Angel, Ficlet, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Romance, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themissing/pseuds/themissing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after all these years, the absence of his wings is nearly a physical ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Center of Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching some birds fly a few days ago and was suddenly struck by how painful that would be to look at if you yourself had been able to do the same before. Which resulted in this little ficletty thingy, in a future setting where Cas fell permanently many years ago and our two idjits finally got their heads out of the sand. Trigger warning for two brief mention of gory nightmares.
> 
> Feedback much appreciated! This is my first foray into fanfiction, so be gentle.

Sometimes he wakes up at night and can almost remember what it was to fly. As he opens his eyes the memory of it rushes away, slipping through his fingers like the air that once rustled in his wings. He has to remind himself to keep breathing, a conscious effort when the sheer weight of _everything_ converges on his lungs. 

When he can move again he slips out from under the bedcovers, careful not to disturb the warm body sleeping peacefully next to him. No blood dreams tonight, no gasping for air when everything is burning-burning-burning and there’s no one else left to blame.

The thick bathrobe he keeps on a hook on the door hangs heavy on his back. The bulky press of fabric against his shoulders is comforting in its familiarity.

He makes his agonizingly slow way down into the living room, where the windows are widest. Like so many times before, he stands before them, a preternatural stillness in him even after all these years. He hopes to catch a glimpse of a bird, a bat, a moth, any blessed flying thing swooping around the garden as the dark skies gradually heal into a light bruise on the horizon. More often than not he only stares at snowflakes slowly drifting down or raindrops falling in a grey cascade. 

They are all victims of gravity, he thinks, all inescapably tied to the surface of this one globe. But some creatures are able to pretend they aren’t, and he is no longer one of them.

This time, nothing moves behind the window pane. The garden is flooded by light even at night, because who knew better than them what could come lurking along under cover of darkness? The spindly branches of the trees cast sharp shadows on the ground. If the wind blew, the shadows would dance across the dead grass. They would ripple like the water on the lakes and oceans he could once effortlessly glide over, too fast for anyone to see him dip a hand across the surface.

The wind doesn’t blow.

After a while he hears soft footsteps on the stairs, bare feet descending. He still has a keen ear, but there was a time he would have been able to hear the slightest change in breathing upstairs behind closed doors. He would have known about growing wakefulness long before the breather stirred. Would have been able to enter their very dreams.

No matter, he would still recognize these steps anywhere. 

Lashes whisper against each other as the newcomer blinks sleepily in the light from the window. He misses that sound, too, misses being able to hear the man's heart beating from across the continent, not just with his head leaning against a warm wide chest. 

“Hey”, comes a gently gruff voice, rumbling impossibly low when drowsy. “You okay?” A stifled yawn turns into a high-pitched whine, and the embarrassment leads to neck scratching and leaning against the door frame. He can’t help but chuckle at that. It comes out a small huff from his nostrils, and as green eyes lock into his own he shrugs. He could say he’s fine, could play at that game, but they don’t lie about these things. They don’t pretend they don’t both sometimes scream out in their sleep and expect to wake up lying in a puddle of blood. Blood that they themselves spilled from the veins of innocents.

Green eyes flicker to the floor, dragged down by history – the things they talk about incessantly and the things they never mention. A quick shake of a head to dispel the weight and those eyes are back on him. They sweep across his face and behind his back where there is nothing to see in the shadows, not anymore. He catches himself rolling his shoulders back, stretching his neck, reaching out with the memory of feathery tips that were never quite _there_ in this form, never quite physically manifested. Now, though, the absence feels like a gaping wound in his back.

“Wings?” is the question that doesn’t really even need to be asked, but he’s grateful for the sound of that voice, nearly tangible these days in its rough, gravelly tones. He nods and sags a little in his over-sized bathrobe. There’s a dry bark of a laugh, a hand rubbing the back of a neck uncertainly. The man shifts from the wall and bounces his weight slightly from foot to foot. He’s always doing this unconscious balancing shuffle, settling into his posture, grounding himself. He becomes an unmovable force, formidable even in sweat pants and a faded shirt. There’s a boldness that lives in his very bones.

A decisive inhale, and a crooked smile pulls at one corner of a mouth.

“Tell you what, how ‘bout we head on down South for a while, somewhere warm, with maybe a beach. I could, uh, I could take you skydiving. Or hang gliding. Y’know. I hear bungee jumping’s nice, if a bit short on the whole ‘weightless’ deal.”

He knows how terrified the man is of flight, knows how much it takes out of him to suggest these things, even half-jokingly. It’s not enough, it’ll never be anywhere near enough but he smiles back at the man making the offer because he always smiles at him, now that he can.

His own voice is less burnt and charred than it used to be, less of a guttural growl when there is no raw celestial power trying to fit through hopelessly small vocal chords. It’s still throaty, though, as if those years left a lasting strain.

“I hear NASA has airplanes that can simulate zero gravity through parabolic flight paths. I’m not too sure about the nickname ‘vomit comet’, though.”

That earns him a full boyish grin, the kind that actually reaches the corners of the man’s eyes, crinkling them in ways he doesn’t get to see nearly as often as he’d like. A soft chuckle that still tinges with incredulity every time he makes a joke, like it’s a precious rarity. Like _he_ is a precious rarity.

Oh.

There.

 _There_ it is again, the feeling of ground giving way under his feet as he takes off. The roar in his veins as he escapes the pull of gravity. The light-headed sense of freedom that comes with being able to instantly be anywhere in the world.

But right now, even if he could, he knows there is nowhere else he would rather be.

The man doesn’t seem to notice. He huffs out another laugh, then swats him playfully on the arm. “C’mon. It’s the ass-crack of dawn and there is no way I’m getting out of bed yet if I don’t have to.” The swat turns into a tender pat as he moves towards the stairs and waits patiently at the landing.

The fallen angel takes one more look out the window. There is indeed a decided fade around the horizon. Doubtless the earliest birds would soon be taking flight.

He goes up the stairs first, and the man follows close behind. About midway up, he suddenly feels hands on his back. He stops and glances over his shoulder, smiling briefly to himself before he keeps on walking.

Two hands. Long fingers splayed across his shoulder blades. Like wings.


End file.
